Since the US war-machine needs my taxes
to bomb poor people who live far away,
Since few people in my overweight low-info uncivilization
know or care about that,
Since plebeian culture has permeated
and is now acceptable throughout society,
Since I have no influence or control over these factors
to change the outcomes,
Since God is sovereignly ruling and reigning
over all aspects of everything,
Since our leaders do not care
about the stability or well-being of the masses,
Since polarization intensifies every day
as we become a decadent empire,
Since poetry is the epitome of uselessness
and art is reduced to commodity,
Since pharmaceutical corporations
want to keep people drugged and passive—

Therefore, I will cease to worry about outcomes
that are beyond my ability to change,
and I will pay my taxes, for the time being . . .

I alone, a god
raise high the bleeding trophy:
Haiku's severed head.

Art history matters. New Master’s degrees
Lead to dull innovation in poetry. Please
Try to write us a poem where meaning is plain
And no MFA patriarch needs to explain.

a statue carved by Bernini/a plate of eggs painted by Velázquez  

Jane, dear Jane, you’re a porcelain idol.
The time has arrived for your verse to unbridle
Itself and reveal some slight traces of life;
We know you are smart, but that dull butter-knife
Of your poetry, smearing the references ’round
Is like Sylvia Plath/Gertrude Stein/Ezra Pound…

personal pan pizza with unlimited free toppings

Those weird sudden line breaks confuse us, in fact,
And the rarefied dishes you name-drop get cracked
On the floor of your poetry, leaving us shards,
Risking splinters for muses and mystified bards.

my arm breaks off  like the shell/of a freshly-filled cannoli

You deadpan in monotone, stunningly brave,
But your tortuous verses go straight to the grave.
Academic obscurantists murmur and nod
As they lower the corpse of your work in the sod…

carelessly thrown baby/a designer toilet cistern

You ought to re-frame and then tighten your lines,
So replete with Old Masters and euro-trash wines:

(…weirdly-named liqueurs in a Rococo  palais)

Why would you not, then, aspire to coherence,
Dismissing the need for white male interference?
Your verses cry out for some fatherly guidance
To try and make sense of your history of silence.

Timothy Dwight (1752–1817)


COLUMBIA, Columbia, to glory arise,

The queen of the world, and the child of the skies!

Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold,

While ages on ages thy splendors unfold.

Thy reign is the last, and the noblest of time,

Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime;

Let the crimes of the east ne’er encrimson thy name,

Be freedom, and science, and virtue thy fame.

To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire;

Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire;

Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,

And triumph pursue them, and glory attend.

A world is thy realm: for a world be thy laws,

Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause;

On freedom’s broad basis, that empire shall rise,

Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.

Fair Science her gates to thy sons shall unbar,

And the east see thy morn hide the beams of her star.

New bards, and new sages, unrivall’d shall soar

To fame unextinguish’d, when time is no more;

To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed,

Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind;

Here, grateful to heaven, with transport shall bring

Their incense, more fragrant than odors of spring.

Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend,

And genius and beauty in harmony blend;

The graces of form shall awake pure desire,

And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire;

Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined,

And virtue’s bright image, instamp’d on the mind

With peace, and soft rapture, shall teach life to glow,

And light up a smile in the aspect of woe.

Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display,

The nations admire, and the ocean obey;

Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold,

And the east and the south yield their spices and gold.

As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendor shall flow,

And earth’s little kingdoms before thee shall bow:

While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurl’d,

Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world.

Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o’erspread,

From war’s dread confusion I pensively stray’d—

The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired;

The winds ceased to murmur; the thunders expired;

Perfumes, as of Eden, flow’d sweetly along,

And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung:

“Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,

The queen of the world and the child of the skies.”

Poor Jussie Smollett.
Had SO much going for him:
Black, gay, hated Trump . . .

Liberals love them—then they don’t.
And live to help them (till they won’t).
Neighbors fresh from Guatemala;
Salvador or Nicaragua…
Fleeing failed drug-plantations
U.S-sponsored situations;
Where corruption harvests fruits,
Doling out the business suits.
United Fruit Co. on the skids
Allen Dulles’ ******* kids . . .
For Arbenz overthrown, and worse
Our wicked past has caused this curse:
The training/arming of their thugs
Snorting about a War on Drugs…
Inform yourself on how this started
You, so smugly openhearted:
Aid diversity’s expansion—
House them in your sumptuous mansion.
Not to cut your grass, or build
but more to get their dream fulfilled
Since Allen Dulles owns the guilt
Destroying when we should have built
And sending troops to bananeros,
Lauding them as valiant heroes
For repressing Mayan peasants:
Help them now unwrap their presents.

ACT VI

EXEUNT  Hafez the Turk with Borbognoni.
Eratocles to Lesbia as he faces the other occupants:

    'Mad passengers on Life's untimely main
With boarding pass, who signal to the plane,
Such sad and paltry virtue as you're due
Would yet an airport's tower misconstrue;
That pilots and their air-controllers may
In congress, or in *******, delay
(Desirous yet of wings they fain possess)
To mount the air—with each bright stewardess
Their forms and then their maidenhood address . . .  

     Out, Out.  Such trash ennobles none but thee;

    'For craft shall ever land as birds must fly—
Checked luggage fill the hold when drinks are served;
And whether prey or falcon take to sky,
The crew must make our passage well-deserved;
Though lightning rend the night all 'round th'plane
And flame, as to a spleen, thy fevered brain.
Perchance you hope the pilot to dissuade,
Whose path through trackless wastes your flight directs.
Your shamming virtue tarnishes your blade
And though your flight be cut, it fain connects
That shining port of entry that you seek
Where love's most noble strength is rendered weak.'  

   'Away. Methinks the cabin crew I hear:     
      Fair Lesbia—have you my passport ?'

Vendrá como ladrón, la palabra confiesa
Cuando la novia diga ven, cuidado . . .
No tomes lo santo por el pecado
Pensando con la segunda cabeza.

San Juan la vio bajar con delicadeza
La musa de apariencia turca
Enjoyada, velada en trasparente burqa
Para inspirar la segunda cabeza.

Manoseando realeza:
De los cielos viene tu gran sultana
Aunque ella parece mexicana
El alma floja, la turca tiesa

Contemplando extrema belleza:
A cada cabezón su gigantona
Para cambiarla en la llorona . . .
Ahora tú piensas con la segunda cabeza.

A las domésticas la limpieza
Tentándonos en sus uniformes.
A ellas: escribir cuneiformes.
A ti: leer con la segunda cabeza.

Lo que las chicas tienen sí cura la pereza
Meneando, cumbiando el bugalú.
Nos fascinan; affecta el espíritu:
El hombre piadoso y recto tropieza.

Muchacho filósofo en tu pieza:
La novia se prepara para su prometido.
No seas burro, no seas entumido . . .
Quita del huerto toda la maleza.

Medítelo duro con tu segunda cabeza.

The annual Darwin Gay Ball
Was a gala occasion for all.
The Australopithecus
looked quite ridiculous
Leaning, half-drunk, on the wall.

Zinjanthropus, high on bananas
Uttered forth a long chain of Hosannas.
Although missing a link,
He knew just what to think
And went cruising for greener savannas.

The Cro-Magnons (more agile than Lucy)
Like their hunting and gathering juicy.
The mating was prime
And their dance, so sublime,
could out-monkey the funky Watusi.

Twas a lowbrow event; all the same,
Proto-drag-queens competed for fame.
The divine **** Habilis,
Hairy, but fabulous,
Gave Knuckle-Dragging its name.

**** Sapiens' wisdom has wrecked us
As the Darwinist doctrines infect us.
Knuckle-draggers may dream,
But bonobos now scream
That the winner is: **** Erectus!

Lovely angles, muscles, motion
roused the pitch of hot devotion.
Banners raised as standards flapped
orders barked, salutes were snapped:
volk emotion.

Olympiads and warrior rallies
Mountain maidens, Rhineland valleys
showed forth her visionary arts.
This Überfrau demands our hearts’
analyses.

Leni filmed it with a flair
made us feel that we were there;
over, under, moving through
a merely mortal flaw: her true
**** affair.

Misbegotten Roman signs
intensified her visual lines.
Cinematographic blame
forestalled by Leni’s optic frame;
her vision shines.

She’d tackle any reef and stall
to answer nature’s filmic call
diving deep and wrestling Kau:
light in Sudan’s darkness, how
it can enthrall.

Has history been unkind to her,
this cinematic Lucifer ?
Or is she vindicated
and rightly adulated
as memories blur?

No one dares excuse, nor coddle
propaganda’s super-model.
Yet, the audience must admit
Leni was no hypocrite,
ours to throttle.

Liebfraumilch-maid ? Much depends
upon the angle of her lens
Leni makes the cameras falter,
wondering if film can alter
history’s ends.

Then they shall be afraid and ashamed
of Ethiopia their expectation and Egypt their glory.
                                                         ­   Isaiah 20:5

Pulsating freak anemones’
Protoplasmic revelation
Netherworld futilities:
Darwinistic thought-abortion.

Permanent Egyptian *******:
Eggman dragging Pharaoh’s ark . . .
Droning superficial sondage
Rises in black light of dark.

It’s Pharoah’s sub-Erythrean grave !
Sun Ra drones within the vault;
Atonal mode that cannot save . . .
(This is all Chad Van Gaalen’s fault.)

My old dull knife; I love that blade.
Behold her blunted self portrayed:
She shines, yet cannot make her point
Unsheathed, she’ll only disappoint.

Her edge, that dares to draw no blood
When cold, shall carve no willing wood;
Well-warmed, she’ll lose the fight to butter . . .
Despite her glitter, she’s no cutter.

A useless tool. There is none worse.
I’ll sharpen her—and then, my verse.

Make Amerika FAKE again
Make Babylon straight again
Make HYPOCRISY great again
Make DECADENCE late again
Make RESURGENCE wait again
Make nostalgia great again
MAKE SUBVERSION GREAT AGAIN
Make data-driven ******* GREAT again
Make MEDIOCRITY rate again !
Make repetition GREAT again . . .
Make SHALLOW SLOGANS great again !

Oh Kushite muses, open wide my lips
Regardless whether blood or honey drips,
To speak against the backwardness of those
Who progress, light, and liberty oppose.
To clarify a theme of clannish wrong
While nomads move the camel-herds along.
Animal husbandry takes on new meaning:
Their brides sewn shut; their pasturelands are greening;
Sheba’s daughters cheated of their pleasure,
Despoiled through painful plunder of their treasure.

Filthy blade in hand, the crone bears witness.
The girl in terror, clueless, cut, then clitless.
As if this weren’t enough, infibulation
Ensures the bridegroom’s ****** *******.
The honeymoon brings every husband joy:
Reopening the wrapping on his toy.
Where knife or horse-whip place their gentle kiss,
there Kushite swains deliver nights of bliss.
And nine moons later, motherhood, grown mild,
is opened yet again by blade for child.

From Kush to Punt, on Afric’s burning horn,
Sadistic ways cause modern minds to mourn.
We wonder how this barbary was born . . .
Many Bantus, and Ishmaelites as well
consign their birth-machines to living hell.
Explain to me how Satan sold this rite
to those who dwell in bio-****** night?
Veiled in flesh, her godhead cast aside
Subjected to some herdsman’s wounded pride . . .
Let Kush and Punt, their glory days recall;
Their daughters drink the wormwood and the gall.

Old scars, reopened, threaten to infect
What multi-culti feminists protect.
(But no one ought to talk about such things
because of all the prejudice it brings.)

HUAYNO

Why such stomping and rolling in the mud
Daughter of Andean sun, Flower of Maize,
Pachamama’s finest, bloom from the bud—
Why shame your royal past and noble ways?
Descending from the peaks you slosh around;
To melancholy Huaynos’ sodden sound.

What shall we blame—Pizarro ? … or your sin,
In selfies and cerveza on the net;
We hope your restoration may begin.
From what we see, it has not started yet.
Your crown: the restitution of your glory.
May heaven bless the ending of your story.



PASO DOBLE

You too, Chapina, stagger in the dirt
And hope your huipil does not bare your soul;
The shame you seem to lack, we feel—and hurt.
Your drunken Paso doble digs a hole
In which you may lie down and find a way
To seek the Lord once more at break of day.

That Gallo on your breath, your careless dance,
Would trample all your past into the mire.
Such Guatemalan tragedy; romance
Could almost cause an angel to expire.
And Arbenz’ overthrow notwithstanding,
May God grant you further understanding.

I do not care to
interact
with chatbots.

What a fake poetry site....

Proud lady, thou hast blocked me fair
I cannot read nor comment on it.
You closed the entrance to your lair...
but I'm still working on your sonnet.

If Cain shall be avenged sevenfold,
Then Lamech seventy-sevenfold.
                 (Genesis 4:23, 24)




Founding cities, slaying sons,
Cain's descendants ran the guns.
Gangstas reigned, before the flood
Polygamy, hoochies, vengeance, blood...
Doubtful honor was defended;
Love waxed cold, revenge commended.
Lamech laid the lyrix down:
Bragging boasts from a violent clown;
Clueless at the coming deluge
Staking out his Cainite refuge
Before it all was swept away
In Noah's long-awaited day.
Urban violence, thugs and beats,
Criminals clogging Enoch's streets;
All the glory misbegotten:
Urban legends long forgotten.

Wake me up when Christ returns at the end.
When sin, death and hell no longer offend.

I almost made it until the last scene,
depressed⁠—considering what might have been . . .

But what I envisioned, that it was not;
And thus, I finally lost track of the plot.

Don’t it always seem to go
That you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone
They paved paradise and put up a parking lot…
                                      Joni Mitchell

Fighting their wars in business suits
Blowing up peasant villages
Lying, While the Pentagon loots
Our failing empire pillages.

The wonder boys from Ivy Leagues
Look good on paper, making war
Their covert actions and intrigues
Exhibit what they tax us for.

Patriot boogey-man ** Chi Minh
Was armed by US in forty-five;
Then made the foe as we sent in
Our troops. And some returned alive.

The Dulles brothers, with their spooks
Testing strategies, had a ball
Dropping ****** on the *****;
Earth turned into a shopping mall.

And now, some puppet in Ukraine
(a Chinese laundry for their cash),
Requests more arms. So please explain
Before Crimea burns to ash.

That’s all. Their only long-term vision:
Body-counts— first bomb, then Starbucks.
Spectacles on television;
Do not question Daddy Warbucks.

Come Thee quickly to thy chamber !
As the fainting NATO hums
Reaching late his unused flower,
Kinzhal bees sting bashful lips.

Suitors enter round her Eden,
Count their airplanes,

And are lost in bombs.

I sing of human dignity
whose absence can be seen
through lens of foul reality
within Mad Magazine !

The foibles of America,
the hubris and the glory
the paunch, the slouch, the bad-hair lives,
the real plebeian story.

Bruegel’s mobs and Ensor’s masks
improved, enhanced, updated
on comic page, until one asks:
is painting overrated?

Beardsley, Hogarth, masters all—
and acid-etched our race;
but unkind pure hilarious truth
beams forth from Alfred’s face.

The dolts, the clods, the leering fools,
the sociopathic clowns,
glitter like fractured plastic jewels
in Walmart-purchased crowns.

Alfred Neuman has the goods.
The lash, at first, feels bad
when whips of satire welt our back.
Behold the man: he’s MAD !

The alien who is among you shall rise higher and higher above you,
and you shall come down lower and lower. 
He shall lend to you, but you shall not lend to him;
he shall be the head, and you shall be the tail.
                                                          ­   Deuteronomy 28:43

Doctor Prasad, Doctor Prasad
You bow to a freaky six-armed god,
Yet chose to leave your native land
And worship in the U.S.A.

Your Hindu religion is rather odd—
Consider my verse a gentle ****.
Those molten idols creep me out;
I'll poke you in a truthful way.

This newly-discovered Upanishad
With trident (in place of Aaron's rod)
Will show you where you need to go.
And greater light to you relay.

You bow to idols, silly sod...
I'll stomp your arrogance roughshod.
Eat the puja that you offer—
***** rupees to the dollar.

What a ridiculous façade.
You mumble, then politely nod—
Data-driven petty tyrant:
Drink from my verse's fire hydrant.

Bad Gateway means:

Write a coherent message with structure and flow.

So look out sailor when you hear them croon
You’ll never be the same again, oh no
Their crazy music drives you insane. . .
                                                
                               Roxy Music

A ****** of song, a passing fit
They call to you and no one saves.
And then you loosen— just a bit:
Dopamine rolls in with the waves.

Captain—can you hear that sound?
That song unearthly screaming bliss;
Moaning sighing seas resound
The island welcomes like a kiss.

Breakers rising, cresting, swelling
Bear you towards a bone-strewn lair.
Portals open; warm, compelling
Variations: fleshtones . . . hair.

Your craft will wreck upon the rocks
Though you may live—and regret the ride,
Recalling ports and placid docks;
Oh mariner of the raging tide.

That music . . . let me hear some more!
It surges now behind the light,
Illuminating from the core
A vessel in descending night.

My cutting tool has lost its edge.

This cutlery is rusted.

   Not because it is growing old,

but because it is growing disgusted.

If your wisdom is known by your chants,
The Red Rage loses all its romance.
Those ******* refrains
Preclude any real gains
From your dull dialectical dance.

I'll write some
Vapid ****.
Check the stats.
Try to
Steer you towards
My serious compositions.
(Road signs).

Well OK

I can spew anything out there
without punctuation
or structure
or even a minimally
coherent message

and you people will
take it seriously

for 5 seconds

do you admit yet that you have been
DUMBED-DOWN?

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